But it’s there. A current running beneath the surface of every interaction, every exchanged glance, every moment when our hands almost touch over a document.
I’ve been keeping my distance.On purpose.
Whatever this is, it needs to be controlled. Analyzed. Understood before I act on it again.
The problem is, I’m not sure I understand it at all.
Marcy stands in front of my desk, clipboard pressed against her chest, running through the morning’s agenda with the efficiency I hired her for. She’s been with the firm for six years and knows when to speak, when to stay silent, when to pretend she didn’t hear something she shouldn’t have.
Castellano’s office has essentially become hers at this point. Not that he seems especially attached to it, but that’s a problem for another day.
It’s been a strange week. I’ve become painfully aware of how the rest of the floor sits empty. There are too many vacant offices for an executive suite. Hard to justify the square footage when most of it collects dust.
Another, slightly bigger, problem for another, hopefully better, day.
“—and the Hartwell depositions need signatures before noon. Also, the quarterly reports from the offshore accounts came in. Nothing flagged, but you’ll want to review them personally.”
“Fine. What else?”
“Mr. Castellano.” She hesitates. “He’s been absent for two weeks now. Longer than usual.”
I knew that already. Lorenzo Castellano runs his own small crew—technically independent, but everyone knows he operates under Vincenzo’s umbrella and, by extension, mine. He handles the jobs that require a certain lack of subtlety. Warehouse work. Collections. The occasional problem that needs to disappear without paperwork.
Sending him to Vegas was my mistake. The man has the self-control of a teenager with a stolen credit card. Two weeks of radio silence mean he’s found a blackjack table, a strip club, or both.
“When was the last check-in?”
“Twelve days ago. Brief call, said the job was almost wrapped. Nothing since.”
“I’ll handle it.”
Marcy nods, makes a note on her clipboard. She’s about to leave when I stop her.
“Actually.” I glance past her, toward the outer office where Bea is typing at her desk. “You mentioned needing help with the filing backlog.”
“The records consolidation, yes. It’s a two-person job, at minimum.”
“Take Bea.” I keep my voice neutral. “She could use the experience. Especially after the crosswalk incident.”
Marcy’s brow furrows. “Crosswalk incident?”
From the doorway, Bea’s voice drifts in. “I jaywalked. Very serious offense. Mr. D’Amico takes pedestrian safety extremely seriously.”
Marcy looks between us, clearly sensing undercurrents she’s smart enough not to explore. “Right. Well. I’ll get the files set up.”
She leaves. Bea returns to her typing without looking at me.
The corner of my mouth twitches. Just slightly.
Jaywalked.
The elevator chimes.
I go still.
Very few people can access this floor without clearance. Marcy. Bea. A handful of senior partners who know better than to arrive unannounced. Anyone else would be stopped at security, announced, escorted.
The doors slide open.
